5.04.2016

Mil novecientos sesentiséis / Guillermo Sucre

Nineteen sixty six

Nineteen sixty six: a late November afternoon. And suddenly the calm burst of light that envelops everything. What air was that air behind the persistent and heavy midday; taking its time and light, made of crystal, like a bird that stops flying when we breathe. The perfection of the sky: that still intimate and final splendor of the city that was about to be given to us. In the garden: the mahogany tree still not too slender, the acacias and the dance of the green and red. And you’re reading in a corner beside a large window. And you lift your eyes not as if looking to see the afternoon: as if returning from the long memory of having already seen it.